An Act of Kindness
by The Grandeurs of Despair
Summary: "Julien Enjolras had had enough. He'd had enough of the insults, of the abuse, of constantly being told that everything that had happened was because of him. He was done with it all."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N- Hello wonderful people! So this kinda popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone and then this happened, so we'll see how it goes. This is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic (it could be a two-shot, could be longer I'm not sure yet) so constructive critism would be greatly appreciated!**

**Disclaimer- I don't own them, they belong to the wonderful Victor Hugo. If I did the Barricade Boys would've survived the Revolution**

**TRIGGER WARNING- THIS STORY DOES DEAL WITH SUICIDE SO IF THAT TRIGGERS YOU PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE LOOK AWAY**

* * *

Julien Enjolras had had enough.

He'd had enough of the insults, of the abuse, of constantly being told that everything that had happened was because of him.

He was done with it all.

Enjolras walked quickly down the long dirt road, his chest heaving and his hands balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard they drew blood. His eyes burned with tears he refused to let fall, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stop his father's words from repeating over and over again in his head. Haunting him. Stalking him. Eating away at his thoughts until the only thing he could hear were his father's malicious, hate-filled words that cut him like a knife.

He passed few people. Those he did pass paid him no mind, either not noticing the young man frantically trying to escape from his home, or simply choosing to ignore him. Most everyone knew about the Enjolras family. They knew about _it. _They knew about his M. Enjolras's temper. And they also knew not to get involved in the family's _personal _business if they valued their reputation and standing in the community. So, when they saw the young Enjolras rushing down the street, obviously distraught and obviously hurt, judging by the bruise blossoming on his jaw, they knew not to get involved. Most of them did anyway.

One person took notice of Enjolras. A young man, around seventeen-years-old, not much older than Enjolras himself. He was new to the area, and had not yet heard of the dangers associated with getting involved in the Enjolras family's business. Even if he had had known it would not have made a difference. The man had a kind heart, and always went out of his way to help others in distress, even if they were complete strangers.

So when he saw the bruised, distressed young man hurrying away, he didn't even need to think before he made to follow him. Before he could get very farm though, he felt a hand reach out and grab his upper arm, forcing him to stop. He turned around and was met with the face of an old woman, with white hair and nice clothes. "You don't want to get involved in that one, young man," she said.

The man squinted his eyes, perplexedly. He didn't understand why no one would help the boy. Isn't that what you're supposed to do for people? Help? "And why is that, madame?"

"That's the Enjolras boy," she said, as if it was glaringly obvious. "You don't want to get involved in their business if you know what's good for you."

This did little to weaken the man's resolve. He didn't see how a boy such as that could cause him any trouble, especially in the state he was in. "Thank you for your concern, madame," he said, placing his hand on the fragile one still resting on his arm, "but I think I will be fine." He held her hand between his own, bowed his head in thanks, and, again, began walking in the direction of the boy.

* * *

Enjolras did not know for how long he had been walking, only that he needed to get as far away from that house as possible. He couldn't deal with it anymore. He was never going back.

When he knew he was alone he started running, faster than he thought himself capable, and he kept running until his lungs began screaming for air. Only then did he stop, his legs giving out and collapsing to the ground.

Enjolras buried his face in his hands, pulling at the golden curls that fell in his face, and screamed. He took all of the frustration, and the pain, and the anger and the sadness that he had been hiding for so long behind his marble mask, and he let it out in the form of a long, drawn out scream. He screamed until he ran out of breath, and then he sat there, feeling empty, and allowing one, single tear to fall down his marble cheek.

After sitting there for what felt, to him, like an eternity, he climbed, unsteadily, to his feet. He took a long, shaky breath, and began surveying his surroundings.

He didn't know where he was. The dirt road he had been following had narrowed out, and was now only wide enough to allow two people to walk side-by-side. He was surrounded by trees, and there was not another human being in sight. The sound of running water could be heard up ahead, and he followed it, hoping to get a bearing on where he was.

After a minute, Enjolras emerged from the trees and found himself standing on a tall, metal bridge. He walked to the middle and peered over the edge. He watched the water rush downstream, as it knocked and lapped against the sharp-looking rocks poking out of the water. The drop was long, about fifty feet, definitely enough to kill somebody, and, for the first time in his life, he thought about jumping.

He thought about all that he went through on a daily basis- all the grief, all the mental and physical abuse, and about how no one had ever tried to help him. In all the years that this had been going on, not once had anybody stepped in and tried to get him out, not once had anybody cared. So what reason did he really have for sticking around?

He thought about his mother, then. How disappointed she would be, were she still around, for even considering this. Though, somehow, he couldn't bring himself to care enough to talk himself out of it. So, slowly, Enjolras climbed over the railing. He stood, perched precariously on the ledge, looking down at the rushing river below.

Enjolras took a deep breath and shut his eyes tightly. He leaned forward, and slowly began to loosen his grip on the railing. A moment later, he was hanging on, only by the grasp of his left hand, the only thing keeping him from falling to his death. Enjolras took one final, shaky breath, and began loosening his grip.

But, just as he was about to let go, he felt a hand cover his own, locking it to the railing, and a desperate cry of "no!" come from behind him. Surprised, Enjolras turned quickly to see who it was that had snuck up on him, but he lost his footing and, to the horror of the stranger, fell from the top of the bridge.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Aaaand we're back! Thank you so so much for all you guys that reviewed and followed you seriously made my day! (And thanks Amar1N for pointing that grammar thing out, I didn't even notice I did that. This is why I need to learn to proof read). I'm trying to update this quickly but there will likely be no rhyme or reason as to when so just bear with me. **

**Tell me what you think, reviews make me really happy and constructive critism would be greatly appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own them, they belong to the amazing Victor Hugo. If I did the Barricade Boys would've survived the revolution.**

* * *

Enjolras's stomach lurched as he felt himself fall through the air. _This is it,_ he though, _I'm going to die. _But before he could fall too far he felt a hand grasp his tightly, resulting in a sharp pain in his shoulder as his fall was abruptly stopped. He looked up and saw the stranger leaning over the railing, gripping Enjolras's hand with both of his, a look of pure horror on his face. "Give me your other hand!" he cried. But Enjolras didn't make a move to cooperate.

He _wanted_ to die. He was already halfway there, if he just took his hand out of the stranger's grasp it would all be over, simple as that. But, then he looked at the stranger's, the young man's, face again and saw all the emotions there- the fear, the sadness, and he realized that if he were to let go then this stranger, this good citizen, would be burdened with insurmountable guilt because of him. Because _he _let go, because he was too selfish to take the stranger's feelings into account.

So, Enjolras reached his other hand up, and allowed himself to be pulled up and over the railing, and fall into a heap on the stone ground. He looked at the boy that had just saved his life. He was sitting on the ground a few feet from Enjolras, chest heaving and hands shaking slightly. Enjolras, for one, felt nothing. He did not shake, his breathing was not abnormal; he was completely and totally numb.

Enjolras continued to look at the stranger, who was staring at the ground trying to gain his composure. After a few moments the man looked up and met Enjolras's gaze, a look of sorrow in his hazel colored eyes.

Enjolras was the first to look away, unable to handle the judgments the man was undoubtedly making about him. The man reached towards him, and Enjolras flinched instinctively, half expecting him to strike him. But, instead, he gently placed his hand on Enjolras's shoulder, a touch more gentle and friendly than any he had felt in years, and looked at Enjolras with a look of sorrow and compassion. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

Enjolras didn't trust himself to speak. Not in years had he heard someone talk to him so lovingly. Not with malice in their voice but with compassion. With words not meant to wound but to comfort. For the second time that day he felt tears form in his eyes, threatening to fall. Enjolras looked away, refusing to let the man see his weakness. Using all the strength he could muster, he swallowed past the lump in his throat to reply. "Yes. I'm fine, monsieur, thank you," he said, still unwilling to look back at the man, and unable to keep his voice form breaking slightly when he said "fine."

The man looked at Enjolras disbelievingly. "You don't look fine to me," he said, his voice full of concern. "Let me help you, please."

Enjolras felt a hint of anger bubble up inside him. This man didn't know him. He had no right to butt into his personal business. Why would he even want to? It had to be some kind of trick, Enjolras decided. The man was probably just trying to get him in trouble with his father. That was it. That had to be it. No one would ever actually care about his problems.

Enjolras stood, still pointedly ignoring the stranger's gaze. "Well, I am. Now, I thank you for your help, monsieur, but I really must be going."

Enjolras began to walk away from the man but was stopped by a hand gently grasping his arm.

Enjolras flinched, instinctively preparing to defend himself like he has had to do so many times, but no attack came. The only thing that did, were words spoken gently. "Please, monsieur, I only wish to help."

The level of concern and sincerity in the man's voice had the troubled young man reevaluating his previous judgments about the stranger's motives. Maybe he did want to help, but why? There had to be a reason, there was always a reason. "Why?" Enjolras asked, so softly that the older man had to strain to hear him.

"Because that's what people do for each other," he replied, so confidently that Enjolras himself almost believed it.

Enjolras finally turned and met the man's gaze, not even bothering to hide the tears glistening in his eyes anymore, though he said nothing. "Please," the stranger began, "allow me to at least walk you home, so you don't get into any more… trouble."

Enjolras just nodded slightly and turned in the direction of "home." He walked slowly, staring at the ground and thinking about all that had just happened, still trying to decipher the man's motives for doing this. The other man just walked beside Enjolras, not too close but not too far, and somehow managing to stay in step with Enjolras's sluggish pace.

"My name is Guillaume, by the way. Guillaume Combeferre," the man said.

"Enjolras."

"Well it is nice to meet you, monsieur Enjolras," Combeferre said. Enjolras didn't reply, and Combeferre did not try and make him. He just stood by the young man as a silent comfort as they walked back into town.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm back! Thank you guys so much for following and reviewing it makes me incredibly happy! I forgot to mention earlier that this is not going to be a slash story. I'm personally more of a bromance person so that's what this is. Hope you guys enjoy it and I'll try to update again soon. And, as always, constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, if the story sucks I want to know why. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own them, they belong to the wonderful Victor Hugo, if I did, the Barricade Boys would've survived the revolution.**

* * *

Enjolras awoke the following morning to the sun peeking through the windows. He sat up, stretching his arms out and wincing when he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. He hissed and grabbed the offending joint, massaging it lightly, trying to alleviate some of the pain.

Suddenly, all of his memories from the previous day came back and hit him like a freight train, crushing his chest under their weight. He thought of the malicious, hate-filled words that spewed out his father's mouth in his drunken rage, the sound of flesh hitting flesh as the older man's fist collided with his jaw. He remembered running out of the house as fast as he could, determined to put an end to his pain, one way or another. And he remembered the bridge, how close he came to ending his life for good, how much he wanted to.

But then, there was the man. Combeferre. The man that did everything he could to save the life of a complete stranger. A stranger whose life wasn't even worth saving.

Combeferre walked the whole way home with Enjolras, at least until they reached the start of Enjolras's road. He feared what his father would think or do if he were to see Combeferre with him, not that he told Combeferre that. Luckily, though, his father had already passed out drunk by the time he got back. The majority of the walk home had been silent, Combeferre, smartly, not trying to press him for explanations or answers, just being a silent guide.

Enjolras had received some prying looks when they passed back through town, but all looked away sheepishly when they noticed him glaring at them in response. The townspeople may not get involved in the Enjolras family but they're definitely interested in it.

If he were to be honest with himself, Enjolras was glad to have had Combeferre with him. He didn't think he could've handled the sneers and whispers from the townspeople without him. Combeferre had a strangely calming presence about him, and was able to help Enjolras keep his composure with just a look, and an occasional gentle touch.

Now that he was thinking more clearly, Enjolras was horrified at what he had tried to do. It was horrible, and selfish, and weak, and he was disgusted with himself for doing it. And he'd failed his mother, again. He tried so hard to do her proud, to make it so her death would not be in vain, but time and time again he failed her. He was worthless. He deserved to deal with this, to feel this way. His father was right, it was his fault.

Enjolras stood, still cradling his aching shoulder, and began to dress. It proved to be difficult, though, as every movement of his arm sent a sharp pain shooting through his shoulder. But ten minutes and quite a few muffled curses later, he was dressed and walking silently down the stairs, careful not to wake his father who likely was still recovering from the previous night. And his father was never a happy man when he was hungover.

Sure enough, when he passed the living room on his way out, Enjolras saw his father sprawled out on the couch, in the exact position he had been in the night before, his arm thrown over the side, and an empty bottle of wine dangling precariously from his manicured fingers.

Enjolras continued his trek to the front door, walking as quickly and silently as he could; every creak of the floorboards sounding monstrously loud to his ears. He made it to the door and grabbed the handle, nearly in the clear, when he heard a loud bang come from behind him. Enjolras's heart stopped. He turned to see the bottle had fallen from his father' fingers to the floor, and the older man was beginning to rouse.

Enjolras knew he should leave right then but he couldn't find the strength the move, he felt as if he was glued to the spot. He stood, his hand still grasping the door handle in a white-knuckle grip, watching his father shift for what felt to him like hours, but in reality was only a few seconds.

Finally, the drunken man settled down and began emitting loud snores once again. Enjolras, however, stood frozen for a few minutes more, staring at the man, before he was finally able to tear his eyes away and pull open the door. He left the house as fast as he could, and only when he was safely outside did he begin to breathe again.

Enjolras stood leaning against the large wooden door for a few minutes, breathing deeply and trying to regain his composure. Only when he was sure that his normal marble mask was firmly in place did he begin walking, leaving the large, imposing house behind.

* * *

Combeferre walked along the dirt road, lost inside his mind. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about the boy from the previous night. He couldn't fathom how something could go wrong in a person's life that they would be willing to throw themselves off a bridge.

He had seen the boy, Enjolras, around town before it happened. He struck Combeferre as being polite but silent, introverted. He rarely saw Enjolras with other people, opting instead to sit by himself, reading a book or writing. He was a bit like Combeferre in that way.

But what he had not noticed about Enjolras were his frequent injuries. If he though hard about it Combeferre could remember some kind of injury- be it a bruise, or a limp- on Enjolras nearly every time he saw the boy. It just had not registered with him until now. Until the boy had nearly thrown himself off a bridge in a desperate attempt to get away from whatever it was that was haunting him. Although, Combeferre could take a pretty good guess at what that was.

He had noticed the previous night when he walked Enjolras home how he tensed up slightly and began to walk a bit slower as they approached his house. The slight tremble in his hands when they reached his road and Enjolras told him that he would be fine from there, and how he refused to look him in the eye as he said it.

Combeferre could recognize the signs of abuse; he'd seen far too many cases of it at the hospital where he volunteered, and he had no doubt that Enjolras was a victim of it as well. Now that Combeferre knew of the danger that Enjolras was in, both from the person doing this to him and from himself, he could not, in good conscience, leave the boy to his fate. Combeferre was not the type of person that could just leave if he knew someone was hurting, even if it was a stranger. Also, he felt a strange connection to the young man, like it was his responsibility to help him. And he reminded him a bit of his younger brother, Henri.

Combeferre decided that he would seek out Enjolras and try to help him. He didn't have to search long, though, as he looked up and saw Enjolras standing down the road.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello! I'm sorry this chapter took a bit longer than the others to get up but you guys know how life can be. It's a bit shorter as well but I wanted to get something up and I'll try to get the next chapter up soon! As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, they belong to the amazing Victor Hugo, if I did the Barricade Boys would've survived the revolution. **

* * *

Enjolras stood frozen to the spot. He had walked for about ten minutes then as soon as he turned he saw Combeferre standing across the road, and Combeferre saw him as well. He wanted to run. He wanted to turn and keep on walking and pretend that he never saw him because talking to Combeferre meant acknowledging the fact that he really tried to… rid the world of his existence, and he didn't want to do that. He couldn't do that.

But, Enjolras was not the type to run away from his problems, he was much too stubborn for that. So, instead of walking the other way, Enjolras took a deep breath and started walking towards Combeferre. Every step of the way he had to force himself not to turn around and as he got closer to the man he felt as if his heart was about to burst out of his chest. Finally, he reached Combeferre and stood in front of him for a moment, trying to regain the ability to speak without his voice shaking.

"Good morning, monsieur," Enjolras finally said, as politely as he could, while wringing his hands slightly.

"Good morning," he replied.

Combeferre seemed to be waiting for Enjolras to speak first so he gathered all the courage he could muster and began, his eyes flicking between Combeferre's and the ground. "I-I just wanted to…" Enjolras cursed his nervousness and tried again, this time forcing his voice to stay steady. "I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me last night. I realize now the foolishness of what I did, and I am sorry to have had put you in that position. It was unfair to you and I sincerely apologize. Good day, monsieur." Enjolras nodded his head slightly and began to walk away, praying that that would be the end of it.

"Wait!" Combeferre called. Enjolras stopped quickly but did not turn around, desperately wishing that the older man would just dismiss him and let this whole ordeal be forgotten. He had no such luck. "Monsieur Enjolras, what you did, or tried to do… you should not be so ashamed."

Enjolras turned at this and looked at Combeferre quizzically. _Why would I not be? _He wanted to say. _I tried to throw myself off a bridge because my father and I got into an argument. _He said none of this out loud, but Combeferre seemed to read it in his eyes.

"I mean, sure there was probably a better way of dealing with… whatever it was, but you were obviously hurt over something, and you should not be ashamed of feeling. Sadness and fear do not make you weak, monsieur, they only make you human."

Enjolras did not know how to respond. Combeferre seemed to be able to read him like an open book, which served to both unnerve him and make him feel closer to this man at the same time. He wanted to believe what Combeferre was telling him, he wished that he could, but he had been told, quite forcefully, for his entire life that the opposite was true.

When he was a child and would fall and scrape his knees and run to his parents with tears streaming down his face, his father would tell him to "be a man. A little blood is no cause for tears. Tears show weakness." When he was afraid of the monsters lurking in the dark his father would tell him to grow up. To stop acting like such a child and use his head for once. When his mother died he hadn't even shed a tear, not in front of his father at least. He knew what he would hear.

Enjolras had been told his entire life that emotions equaled weakness. And no matter how confidently Combeferre said they didn't Enjolras didn't think he could just turn his back on sixteen years of conditioning. But, driven by his desire to both please the man and put this conversation to rest Enjolras smiled and nodded at him, then thanked him for his kindness.

"Could I but you a drink, monsieur Enjolras?" Combeferre asked, before Enjolras was able to leave.

"I don't drink, monsieur."

"Just a coffee then?"

"Shouldn't I be the one buying you a coffee?" Enjolras asked.

"Well alright then, you buy me one."

Enjolras looked at him quizzically, still trying to determine just what it was that the man wanted from him. "Yes, alright," he said.

Combeferre smiled brightly at him, pleased to not be leaving the boy alone. "Great!" he said. "I know a good place just around the corner."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello! I'm sorry that this update took so long but I ran into a bit of trouble with some of the dialogue and I had to step away from it for a bit. I'm still not entirely happy with it but I didn't want to wait much longer to post it (I'll try to get the next chapter up sooner next time, I promise!). We get a bit of background on Ferre in this chapter and I hope I've done him justice. Tell me what you think. As always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, they belong to the amazing Victor Hugo.**

* * *

Combeferre sat silently at a small café table, waiting for Enjolras to return with their drinks. The younger man had been quiet on the walk over, but he was hoping to get him to open up. Despite not knowing him for long, Combeferre felt a strange sense of protectiveness over the blonde. He felt the need to keep him safe and he couldn't do that if Enjolras did not trust him.

Combeferre saw Enjolras walking back to the table with two steaming mugs in his hands and smiled at him, which was returned with a small, half-smile from Enjolras. Combeferre thanked him as he placed one of the mugs in front of him and the younger man nodded in response. He watched the younger man for a moment, who sat silently, his hands stilled wrapped around his own cup and staring intently into the light brown liquid.

Combeferre decided that if was going to get Enjolras to open up he was going to have to speak first and break the ice. "Are you in school?" Combeferre asked, trying to keep the conversation light to start off.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you in school? You strike me as an intelligent person, I was just wondering."

Enjolras seemed to get slightly embarrassed at the compliment but replied. "Yes, I am, I'm at Lycée Camille Vernet. I'm hoping to go study in Paris soon, though"

"Oh? I'm actually planning on doing the same thing," Combeferre said. "What are you planning on studying there?"

"Law. I want to help the people in any way that I can and I thought that this would be a good start."

"That's very noble of you, monsieur," Combeferre said. After a moment he added quietly, "You're a Republican, aren't you?"

The stony, self-confident look Enjolras got in his eye took Combeferre slightly aback. "Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that, monsieur?"

"No, not at all. I am one as well."

"You are?" Enjolras asked, looking slightly surprised.

"Of course. You are not the only upper class citizen who believes in the rights of the people, monsieur."

Enjolras was silent for a moment then quietly said, "Enjolras." When he saw the look of confusion on Combeferre's face he said, "You can just call me Enjolras."

Combeferre smiled, knowing he was beginning to break through to the boy. "As long as you call me Combeferre," he said, and was rewarded with the first small but real smile he had seen on Enjolras's face.

"So where are you from?" Enjolras asked. "You only just moved to Valence, am I correct?"

Combeferre nodded. "Yes, I moved here from Agen a few months ago with my mother and father."

"What for?"

Combeferre looked away sadly at this. "It just held bad memories for us there," he said softly. Enjolras seemed to accept that answer, and Combeferre preferred not to drudge up the memories of what happened to Henri, but he quickly realized that if he were to get Enjolras to trust him, then he had to do the same. "My younger brother, Henri, was killed there… he was… murdered… actually. He didn't come home one day and the next we found his… body in the woods. He'd been strangled."

Enjolras looked at Combeferre with a mixture of shock, horror, and sympathy, and what looked to be understanding. "I am so sorry, Combeferre, I shouldn't have asked," he said, obviously feeling terrible for the older man.

"It's alright, you didn't know."

"Did you ever find the man that did it?" Enjolras asked after a moment.

"No. We have no idea, there was no evidence. And we just couldn't stand being there anymore not knowing, and with all the memories, so we left. It was a bit spur of the moment, actually. One day we just packed up and came here." Combeferre could feel tears stinging his eyes and it took all his strength not to let them fall. The whole time he was speaking he did not take his eyes off of his trembling hands, resting on the table.

Enjolras did not reply, and Combeferre was beginning to think that he wasn't going to, when he felt a slightly smaller hand reach out and cover his own. He looked up and met the eyes of the young blonde boy sitting across from him. Enjolras looked at him with sympathy and caring and squeezed his hand gently. "I am _so_ sorry, Combeferre," he said, and he could tell that he meant it. He could also tell, through Enjolras's tone of voice and the understanding look in his eyes, that he had been through it as well. That he knew what it was like to lose someone so horribly and before their time.

Combeferre patted Enjolras's hand with his free one and squeezed lightly. "Thank you," he said.

Enjolras looked away and sat back in his chair, absentmindedly circling the top of his mug with his finger. The two sat in silence for a few minutes. Not an awkward silence, though, the kind of silence in which you draw comfort just from the other person's presence.

"So what do you do?" Enjolras said suddenly. "Do you work, are you in school?"

"I am in school, yes. I also do some work over at the hospital."

"Oh, so you're a doctor?" Enjolras asked.

Combeferre let out a small laugh. "No, not quite. I'm just a volunteer right now. I'd like to be. That's what I was hoping to go to Paris to study, medicine."

"And how did you decide upon that?"

"Well, my father is a doctor. A great one, actually. When I was a child he would take me to the hospital with him sometimes. I loved watching him work, how focused he would get on a particular patient, how happy he would get when he finally figured out how to cure them, how happy the patient would get. When I got older he started letting me help with some of the smaller things: giving the patients medicine, collecting medical history. I started studying his medicine textbooks in my free time and I helped him with a few diagnoses, and that feeling of knowing that you helped to cure someone of an illness, to save someone's life is the greatest feeling in the world, and I just fell in love with it, and I decided that that's what I need to do."

"That's great, Combeferre," Enjolras said. The younger man smiled at him but Combeferre could see a hint of what appeared to be sadness or longing in his eyes.

"What about your father?" Combeferre asked. "What does he do?" There was a fleeting look of panic in Enjolras's eyes but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

"He works in the government," Enjolras said shortly.

"The government?" Combeferre said, his voice revealing his shock. "Your father works in the government and you are a Republican?" Enjolras nodded. "How did that happen?"

"I just never understood how he could live such a lavish lifestyle while there are thousands of people starving on the streets."

"And you've always felt like this?" Combeferre asked.

"I have," he said. "When I was younger my mother and I would go give alms to the poor nearly every day. We would always make extra food and bread then we would take it to the churches and the streets and hand it out." The smile Enjolras wore when he began speaking slowly faded away, until the sadness and longing he felt were evident on his face.

"You don't do this anymore?" Combeferre asked.

"No," he said sadly. "Not anymore."

Combeferre knew he could be pushing his luck, he'd already learned more about Enjolras than he thought he could in such a short amount of time, but he was so close to getting the boy to really open up he couldn't let that chance slip away. His curiosity wouldn't allow him to, either. "Why not?" he asked.

The look of pained sadness the Enjolras gave him made him wish he'd never brought it up.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: That was not a quicker update... sorry? In my defense I have exams coming up and my boss decided that would be the perfect time to give me a bunch of long work weeks, so forgive me. Anyway, enjoy, as always, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own them, they belong to the lovely Victor Hugo.**

* * *

Enjolras looked at Combeferre, at a loss for what to say. He never spoke about what happened to his mother. It was too painful to even think about; every time he did he couldn't help but be thrown back into the memories, like he was watching it happen all over again. The only thing he had ever wanted to do was push it out of his mind and never think or talk about it again. And it had been relatively easy up to this point considering no one had ever asked.

And now, Combeferre, a man that he just met a day ago, asks him about it and he suddenly feels like he wants to tell him. Not just because he feels obligated to because Combeferre told him the story about his brother, but because no one has looked at Enjolras with that much caring and compassion since his mother died. And finally, Enjolras realized that Combeferre didn't have an agenda, he only wanted to help.

Enjolras intended to tell him, somehow he hadn't felt this close to anyone in years, but when he opened his mouth he realized he couldn't say it. He couldn't tell Combeferre the story of what happened, of how he failed the only person that really ever mattered to him. He couldn't watch the caring in the older man's eyes turn to disgust. He couldn't stand to have the first person since his mother that actually cared about his wellbeing suddenly hate him because he found out how much of a coward he is. Because he failed.

So, Enjolras didn't tell him what happened. He locked the memory back up inside his mind and swore to himself, once again, that he would never speak or think about what happened. "She was killed when I was ten," he said instead. "Father never really was one for philanthropy so we stopped." Combeferre looked like he wanted to press him for more information but seemed to think better of it after a moment.

"I'm very sorry," he said.

"Thank you."

They sat in silence for a moment, until Enjolras stood up suddenly. "I must be going," he said. "My father will be expecting me. It was nice speaking to you, Combeferre."

Combeferre stood up after Enjolras. "And you as well," he said. "I hope we can meet again?" he asked, hopefully.

"I would enjoy that," Enjolras said, a small smile in his face. "Until we meet again," and with that, Enjolras left the café, and began walking home.

* * *

Combeferre knew that the chances of getting Enjolras to really open up to him were slim. Still he couldn't help but feel a hint of disappointment when he saw the shutters go up behind the younger man's eyes when they broached the topic of his mother. He had wanted to press further, his curiosity nearly getting the best of him, but he quickly thought better of it. Combeferre knew that if he did he would spook the younger man, likely causing him to close off completely and then everything would have been for nothing. He would not be able to help Enjolras out of whatever situation he was in and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if that happened.

Despite not knowing him for long Combeferre felt a fierce protectiveness over the boy. He felt the need to protect him from whatever misdeeds were being done to him. And based on what he had seen of Enjolras he could tell that he had a very kind heart. He cared deeply about the people, no matter who they were, and was obviously prepared, eager even, to stand up for them, regardless of the consequences to himself. He was sure to become historic and was the kind of man that Combeferre would be willing to fight next to. But to do that, he had to help him first. He didn't know what he had expected, really. He had only met the boy the day before, Combeferre couldn't really expect him to want to tell his problems to someone who was essentially a stranger, especially someone as private as Enjolras.

But still, he was not discouraged. Enjolras appeared to be warming up to him and he got the impression that that did not happen easily. He just had to take it slower, show the boy that he could be trusted, that he would help him. And no matter what it took Combeferre was going to help him.

* * *

Enjolras walked swiftly back towards his house, he couldn't bear to call it a home. Homes were safe and secure. They were where you felt love, and happiness. None of those things existed in the Enjolras household. No matter how much he dreaded returning to that place he didn't dare be late. His father expected him home at exactly one in the afternoon for extra lessons, and consequences of being late could be quite severe, especially the day following a drinking binge. So when he finally came to the large, daunting house he only hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.

He entered the dining room, where his lessons were usually held, but didn't find who he was expecting. Rather than his tutor, he saw his father sitting at the long dining room table, his hands folded in front of him expectantly. He looked up when he heard Enjolras enter, an emotionless look in his eyes. "Come, Julien," he said, motioning at the chair across from him. "Sit."

Enjolras approached slowly and sat hesitantly in the offered chair. "Where is Monsieur Borde?" he asked.

"He's just running a bit late. He'll be here momentarily," he said, his gaze never leaving Enjolras's. "So," he began, "what's this I hear about you running around with the new boy?"

Enjolras's heart sped up. How did he know about Combeferre? "And who told you that?" he asked, masking the worry in his voice with an emotionless façade.

"That does not matter," he responded. "Now, what have you been telling him Julien?" he asked.

"Nothing, father."

"Are you sure about that?" The look his father gave him would've made the strongest of men feel fear, but Enjolras only returned it with equal force.

"Yes," he replied. "I'm sure."

"Good," his father said. "Because you know how much I hate outsiders getting involved in our business." And Enjolras did know. The last person he had started to open up to had been forced to leave town and hadn't been heard from since. There was no way he was going to let that happen to Combeferre.

Enjolras and his father stared at each other, neither looking away until they heard a loud knock on the door. "Well," his father said, "that would be Monsieur Borde. I'll leave you to your lesson, then." And with that, the older man stood and left the room, leaving the young Enjolras alone with his thoughts for a few moments.

He thought of Combeferre, the only person he had felt like he could be close to in years. He didn't know what he would do if his father decided that he was a threat. With the amount of resources at his disposal there was no telling what he could do. He wasn't going to let that happen. Even if that meant avoiding the only person left who actually cared for him; he refused to allow Combeferre's life be ruined because of him. He had made his decision.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N- Hey guys! Long time no see. Sorry about the delay but I've had AP exams and I got kinda stuck as to how to proceed. I'm afraid I rushed the events in the last chapter a bit and it messed me up. Also, almost no one is talking to me! I don't know whether I suck or not. Anyway, it's here now and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated.**

**Disclaimer- I don't own them, if I did I wouldn't be working as a grocery store cashier. **

* * *

The rest of Enjolras's day, luckily, went by without incident. His father had had an important meeting that evening that ran late so he didn't see him for the rest of the day. The remainder of his time had been spent buried in his studies and he had barely emerged form his room for the rest of the night.

Now, the following day, Enjolras found himself wandering aimlessly, repeatedly going over his last conversation with his father in his head. He was virtually alone, it was far too early for many others to be up and about yet. There was only the odd shop owner, preparing him or herself for the upcoming workday. Enjolras was grateful for this, though. He liked the solitude.

After a few minutes Enjolras finally noticed where exactly he was going. To the Park Jouvet. The Jouvet was one of his favorite places in the town; it was quiet and beautiful and it always helped him to clear his mind. Forget about all that's happened and remember a happier time. A time when his mother was around, and would take him to the park almost every day, and they would stroll through the gardens, and run across the wide fields, yelling and laughing.

Enjolras remember a time when he was young, around eight years old, a time when his father would do anything for his wife and son. The three of them had taken a picnic to the park, and set up a large blanket right next to the water. They had stayed there for hours, talking and laughing, throwing crumbs to the ducks in the pond. At one point a small blue bird had flown up, and perched itself atop Enjolras's small shoulder, trying to reach the food in his hand. He held out a few crumbs to the small creature and it had gently pecked them out of his hand, causing him to laugh in delight. The had watched the sun set over the water, and the soft colors filling the sky and reflecting in the crystal blue water had had the young boy in awe. He had fallen asleep, curled into his mother's side, and had to be carried home by his father.

That was one of his last good memories he had of his family together. His mother had died just weeks after that, and nothing was ever the same again. Gone was the loving, gentle father that he had known, and in his place was an angry, spiteful man. A man made bitter by loss and heartbreak, who turned to the bottle to numb his pain. A man who blamed his only son for the loss of his wife, and who punished him for it as well.

Not wanting to relive the pain of losing his mother, Enjolras's thoughts quickly shifted back to Combeferre and his father. He knew very well that his father could be paranoid but he wouldn't go after someone just for talking to him. Would he? He didn't want to find out. He didn't want to bring the wrath of his father down on the only person in a long time that had shown him true kindness. He just couldn't risk it.

In a few years, when he was able to, he would go to Paris and continue his studies. He would finally be out from under his father's thumb and he would be free. But, until then he just had to lay low. Don't make a scene, do as father says, and, most importantly, don't get anyone else involved, and everything would be fine.

This is what he told himself. This is how he justified turning around and walking the in opposite direction when he saw Combeferre sitting on a park bench, head buried in a worn book, when the only thing he wanted to do was go to him and talk to the only person he could call a friend. The only person who had made him forget about all of the crap and the pain in his life, treated him like a human being, listened to his ideas and beliefs and didn't call him an ignorant child. It was hard, but he had to do it. He had to protect Combeferre; he had to keep him out of it. That's what he kept telling himself as he walked further and further away, until the park was only a spot in the distance.

* * *

Combeferre woke early in the morning, just as the first rays of sunlight were cast over the horizon. He had slept little, his worry over Enjolras keeping him up most of the night. He felt he had made good progress with him, but he still found himself worrying about the younger man, especially knowing who it was he was going home to.

After learning of M. Enjolras's position in the government he had looked into him, tried to find out more about the man who held such little regard for his own son. What he learned had scared him.

Years ago, Enjolras's father had been a good man. He was well like by the people, his family constantly gave money to various charities, he was forgiving and lenient. He was a benevolent man. That changed, though, after his wife was killed. From what Combeferre could gather she was killed in a mugging incident when Enjolras was about eight, while Enjolras was with her. Combeferre swore he felt his heart break when he heard that. He knew now why the younger man had seemed to reluctant to talk about it. Seeing something so terrible at such a young age must have traumatized him.

After she was killed M. Enjolras seemed to have made a complete transformation, and not in a good way. No more charitable contributions, his decisions were harsher, his policies were stricter, and he rarely left his house besides to work. Gone was the admiration that the people felt for the man, now all their was, was fear.

He knew now why that woman had warned him about going after Enjolras the other day. M. Enjolras did not seem to take kindly to people getting involved in his business, and things never seemed to turn out well for them. People with sparkling reputations were suddenly the most hated people in town. Their deepest, darkest secrets were dug up and thrown to the forefront for the entire world to see. And they never came back from that. M. Enjolras made sure of it.

A little voice in the back of Combeferre's head told him to run. To stop trying to get involved in something bigger than him, in something that could potentially hurt him and his family. But another voice, this one more prominent, told him that he could not abandon this boy who knew nothing but pain. Who knew no love.

Although, he could not say with full honesty that his motives were entirely selfless. He missed being an older brother. Since Henri died he felt like a part of him was missing, like Henri took a piece of him with him, and being with Enjolras helped. Being around and talking to the younger man made his brotherly instincts flare up again, and he'd forgotten how much he had missed the feeling. No, Combeferre couldn't leave the boy, not now. Maybe not ever.

With his newly strengthened resolve Combeferre got up, determined to find Enjolras again and talk to him. Offer him his help, make sure he knew that he was not alone, not anymore. Of course, he didn't expect the younger man to be up at such an early hour, so he picked up his copy of Rousseau's _Origins of Inequality,_ worn from years use, and contented himself to wait for a more reasonable hour to find the younger man.

Combeferre left the house quietly so as not to wake his still sleeping parents, book cradled in his arms like a child, and began walking to the Park Jouvet. He didn't like spending too much time indoors, he always felt like he was missing out on something spectacular, and he always felt at peace at the Jouvet. The large, colorful gardens, the crystal waters of the pond, the sounds of the birds softly singing, always served to calm him, to help him focus and relax, and the park quickly became his favorite place to read, or study, or just sit and think.

Combeferre sat on a stone bench in the gardens, facing the water, and opened his book. He quickly got so engrossed in it that he could not tear his eyes away from the page. The world passed by without his notice and he didn't seem to mind. He was so invested in the writings of Rousseau that he never even noticed the young blond man slowly approaching him, then quickly turn around and retreat in haste.


End file.
